


Transparency

by turnitoffmckinley



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: 1950s!AU and Modern!AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Gang Violence, Ghost!AU, Ghost!Connor, Greasers, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of conversion therapy, Past McBladeley, mcpriceley, mentions of Churchtarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6254095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnitoffmckinley/pseuds/turnitoffmckinley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who are you?" Kevin asks, wide-eyed at the dimly translucent figure that is lingering in his doorway.</p><p>The boy shyly blinks back, his eyes a sharp, deep blue against the bone-white features of his face. He looks like a corpse, Kevin thinks, with his blackening purple eyelids and the shocking spray of freckles that stand out far too well against his fair complexion.</p><p>"I live here." the redhead responds, unwavering in his position. Kevin takes a step back.</p><p>No, this must be a mistake.</p><p>It can't be happening again.</p><p>"Pardon me, but uh, you can't live here. The owners are dead... have been for a long time."</p><p>The boy smiles, his thinly pale lips curving ever so slightly upwards.</p><p>"Fair enough. Do you know who I am?" the boy asks. Kevin shakes his head slowly, and follows the boy's finger when he points to a very old photograph hanging from a dusty frame on the wall.</p><p>"That's me." he says.</p><p>Kevin frowns.</p><p>"That boy is uh, dead. Has been since-"</p><p>"Since 1955? Yep. That's me," the boy interrupts, his voice wavering with deeply burrowed pain, "and this is my home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Times Moves On

**Author's Note:**

> I've been tinkering with trick-or-treason's lovely ghostie!au for a while, so this is for you, dear! I hope you enjoy!

Steve Blade was the most dazzling, wonderful person Connor had ever seen. His eyes were a stormy blue, far darker than Connor’s own, which were milky and pale as the sky above. Steve’s blonde hair was always slicked back like an oil spill. While Connor was freckly and round-faced, Steve had a square jaw and spotless skin; Connor could never help but feel envious of his good looks.

What had started as an elementary school crush had quickly evolved into Connor flat-out fantasizing, the extent of which only fueling his nightly hell-dreams. He wasn’t sure if Steve could tell, with his perfect smile, but Connor didn’t not notice the way Steve tangled his legs in Connor’s own, or the way he wrapped his arm around Connor’s shoulders as if to say to the world, _“Back off, this is my boyfriend!”_ Connor could only dream.

Their first kiss was on the empty football field after the game. While Chris and James had long since left Connor behind, the redhead had waited, wringing his hands in his lap, his eyes flitting about anxiously.

It was late, it was getting dark out. The evening stars shone brightly, twinkling against the vast ombre of purple, orange, and navy.

"Hey! That's my jacket!"

Connor smiled ruefully, hugging the baby blue and yellow letterman's jacket around his shoulders a bit more snug than before. His eyes met Steve's, who was clambering up the silvery bleachers, blonde hair a sharp contrast against the dark, chiseled features of his face.

"S'comfy," Connor mumbled, leaning back as Steve sat down beside him. He kicked his feet out onto the empty rows below, grinning from ear to ear.

"Well, it suits ya, anyways." Steve replied. He ruffled Connor's hair with one hand, who snorted disdainfully, and reached for his hand. Connor let Steve take it, before rolling his eyes.

"I'll have you know, Steve Blade," Connor said, his voice full of affection and false-scorn, "I used an awful lot of grease to get my hair coiffed just right, and I don't appreciate you-"

Connor was cut off by the smoky cigarette taste of Steve's mouth mingling with his own. It was brief, Connor's eyes blown wide as he realized that Steve, the dark-eyed, leather-jacket-toting, motorcycle-riding bad boy, had _kissed_ him.

And now was smiling at him, a smirk doting and quirking the corners of his lips.

Connor jerked back, his heart racing in his chest. Steve had kissed him, which meant he was having… _homosexual thoughts_ for him, which...

"Hey, hey, I didn't mean'a spook ya!" Steve said, cupping Connor's face. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern as he examined Connor's face, who turned bright red, batting Steve away.

He cleared his throat, trying to process the last minute or so.

"G-gosh... I..." Connor searched for the right words. He wasn't sure what to think of it. Should he be excited his crush reciprocated his feelings, or be scared? He knew what happened to people like them. He couldn't bear the thought of being separated from Steve because of a road block like this.

"I know. I'm a good smooch, eh?" Steve said, moving his lips to press against Connor's jaw line. The redhead squeaked at the sensation, moving to run his hands through Steve's slicked-back hair.

"Oh, _gosh_ , d-don't stop," Connor whined as Steve kissed and nipped all the way down to his collarbone.

Steve finished as he reached the fabric of the varsity jacket, slowly pulling away from the exposed flesh- now effectively covered in the reddest hickeys the world had ever seen. Pleased with his work, he straightened his back, taking Connor's hand again, who was watching him in utter bafflement and wonder.

"So... Do you wanna go on a date?"

Connor lurched backwards, and almost fell off the bleachers.

Steve laughed, helping him untangle his gangly limbs out of the mess of silver gum-pressed seats.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” Steve said.

.::.

Steve stuck an additional straw in Connor’s milkshake, smiling wickedly as he took Connor’s hands from underneath the booth table.

With a frown, Connor tried to pull away, but Steve was faster, interlacing their fingers together with a small laugh.

“What? You calling chicken on me already?” Steve teased. Connor’s lips folded into a small line.

“No! I… Well… you’re awfully touchy tonight, s’all,” Connor grumbled. Steve laughed again, flustering him until his cheeks were flushed.

“I don’t want anyone to share our happiness. It’s not my problem if Chris and James play backseat bingo every time we go out,” Steve chuckled, gesturing to the said two boys in another booth, their lips locked. Connor looked back down at his lap.

“You’re such a closet case, Con,” he added, pulling his hands away and taking a sip of the malt milkshake. He was clearly looking for a challenge, and Connor became an immediate victim.

“Am not!” he said with a pout.

“Really? I take you on a date, I wanna hold your hand, and you got me clutched here!”

Steve reached across the table, gesturing for Connor’s hand. The redhead glanced at Steve, waiting for the punch line, but when it didn’t come, reluctantly complied.

“What’s on your mind, Con?” Steve pressed. Connor rolled his eyes.

“Gee, Steve, stop being such a put down, _I’m fine.”_ Connor insisted, twirling his straw in his drink.

“That’s baloney and you know it.”

“Not true.”

“Come _on_ , Con, spill!”

“What’s it to you, huh?” Connor brushed it off, pulling the milkshake closer to his end of the table and taking a long sip. “Even if I had a secret, what does it matter to you?”

Steve tilted his head, deep in thought, before he smiled.

“You’re on the hook, aren’t’cha?”

_“Steven Blade-”_

“You’re on the hook with me, ya kookie! And you got it hot! Your cheeks are burning!”

 _“Stop it_ , stop laughing.” Connor said, his hands shaking.

_Don’t cry now, don’t cry, you can’t show him what bad news you are. Crying’s for babies. Men don’t cry. Don’t cry Connor don’t cry don’t-_

Steve stopped, scooting forward in his seat.

“Aw Con, I’m only teasing.”

“S’not funny,” Connor said, wiping his eyes furiously, “I’m heading home.” He stood up, storming to the door.

He heard Steve get up to follow him, calling Connor’s name but he was too furious to come to a halt. He was out the door by the time Steve had caught up.

“Connor-”

“Stop it, head back to your pad, my folks are gonna be asking for me, and I have a lot of mush to get done for the science fair this Friday,” Connor snapped, brushing past him as Steve attempted to get in his way.

“Why do you think I brought you here? Why do ya think I kissed you?” Steve argued, shoving his way back in front of him. Lips pursed, Connor attempted to move around him, only to find Steve stepping right back in his path.

“To make a fool out of me. Buzz off, I’m walking home.” Connor deflected. He side-stepped Steve, trying to avoid him yet again, before Steve grabbed his arm.

“I’ll drive you,” Steve said, pulling him along towards his motorbike.

“On that pile of trash? I’ll fall clean off.”

“Nah, you won’t. Put your arms around my waist.”

Connor turned beet red again.

“What?”

“Ah, you got it real bad. Okay, well, are you coming or not?”

Steve swung one foot over the motorcycle, eyes gleaming with mirth.

Connor glanced around him nervously, before releasing an agitated sigh.

 _“Fine.”_ Connor clambered on behind him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist. He felt a shiver creep down his spine, and he pressed his cheek on Steve’s shoulder. “Let’s just go, jerk.”

Steve grinned.

“Alright, tiger, let’s go.” he said.

.::.

Perhaps, Connor reflected, confessing his relationship with Steve had not been the best response when his parents had asked him where he’d been out so late.

Connor would never forget the mortified look on his mother’s face, nor would he ever erase from his mind the miserable disappointment from his father. His blood ran cold as silence filled the room, and he swore that every hair on his body raised like goosebumps. The quiet hurt more than anything he’d ever experienced.

“I want to get better,” he said, twiddling his thumbs in his lap, “I don’t want t-to… To sin.”

His father glanced to Connor’s mother. Connor didn’t know what to think of it, so he stared instead at his lap.

“Bishop Sanderson has a… program, for boys who struggle with… with homosexuality. Your mother and I will work something out.” his father said. He didn’t sound upset, rather resigned. Connor was scared.

“Am I going to hell?” he blurted out, feeling the tears begin to sting his eyes. He was in the top percentile of his class, he wanted to go to an Ivy League school- he couldn’t, he wouldn’t possibly-

His mother interrupted his racing thoughts with a shake of her head. Connor tried to focus on anything but her eyes- her red curls, her porcelain skin, her weary and weathered face- but found he kept returning, with dread, to her sad, cold gaze.

“If we curb this behavior, then we’re sure you’re not going to hell.” she said. His mother hugged him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist instinctively, resting his cheek against the fabric of her pale pink shirt.

Connor had been a crier since he was small. He was never buff or tough, never one for athleticism, an easy target. Over the years, he’d learned to shield himself from bullying, but in the privacy of his home, he allowed himself to cry.

His face was quickly streaked with tears, wetting her shirt, but she kept tracing circles onto his back soothingly as he wept.

“There, there,” she cooed, “we’ll protect you. We can fix this, I promise, it’ll all go away.”

It didn’t go away.

.::.

“Is Connor gonna die?”

“When’s he gonna wake up?”

“Baby, I don’t know when he’s gonna wake up. He’s not feeling well. Hope, your brother isn’t going to die, go back to bed.”

“But ma-”

“Please, baby, we’ll let you know when Connor wakes up. I’ll tuck you in after I’m done.”

He faded in and out of consciousness, unable to physically respond, though his sisters’ and mother’s voices.

Therapy had been fine for a while. “Turn it off” was an easy phrase to learn. Not thinking about boys- about _Steve_ , about their _kiss_ \- had been practically drilled into him within the first month. Until of course, he had a relapse, and how _stupid_ of him to tell Bishop Sanderson that he didn’t _want_ to get “better.” That what he felt… Felt so _right_.

How could I be so stupid?

His parents had never before questioned his therapy. His sisters quickly fell into the routine. Connor went straight to church after school, avoiding Steve’s eyes and his hands and his lips.

Over and over, he recited passages from The Book of Mormon, repenting for his homosexuality, praying to God to cure him. He wanted it to work, he wanted it to work so, so very badly. Or, he _did_. Maybe he would still be okay if he hadn’t seen Steve hug that other boy, who was it? On the football team?

It was stupid, anyways. Why should he be jealous of two sinning homosexuals? Or maybe, the guy was just Steve’s friend?

Connor’s face had burned scarlet. All he saw, in that moment, was _red, red, and red._ He wanted to rip his hair out, no, rip that _boy’s_ hair out, and… smash his lips against Steve’s own, and then he remembered how good Steve’s lips felt and all the longing and repression and-

He shouldn’t have kissed Steve again. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have cried after, either, because he had to go to therapy. Crying’s for the weak, and Connor McKinley was certainly not _weak_.

Steve told him not to go back, to come back home with him to do homework… And continue the kiss. And Connor had wanted to. He really did. Even when Steve wiped his tears away and held him in his arms underneath the gym bleachers and kissed his forehead until all Connor wanted was his… could he even call Steve his _boyfriend_? Steve spoke to him so sweetly this time, was so gentle to touch and his lips so kissable, Connor couldn’t resist wanting to hold onto him and never let go.

He should have listened to Steve. He shouldn’t have gone back.

It didn’t hurt.

Well, _at first_ , of course, it didn’t hurt. Connor felt numb, initially, to the harsh words and harsh images on flash cards that had been held at his face as he was gently shocked whenever he reacted. He didn’t react at first, until he found he didn’t _want_ to not feel anything. He was asked what he wanted. He said Steve.

That was a bad decision.

Because, apparently, he fainted. If he was honest with himself, Connor couldn’t quite remember what all had transpired afterwards. He remembered crying. He remembered pain shooting up his skull.

Maybe he cried for his mother. Maybe he screamed for Steve. He begged for it to stop, begged, screaming and fighting to rip the torturous “therapy” tools off of him. He wanted to end the pain, but the bishop insisted it was helping him.

“We’re not sending him back.”

Connor could faintly hear his mother speaking with someone. His head hurt too much to move towards the distant, warped sounds that he himself could barely process.

“I know dear, I know, but how will this look for our standing in the church?” It was the voice of his father. That was a surprise.

“Our baby could’ve gotten really hurt, or killed, John,” his mother cried, “so… so forgive me if I can say I don’t… don’t care what the church thinks, I’m not sending my son to an early grave.”

“Marjoree-”

“ _John_. We… he’s almost an adult, and he’s capable of making his own decisions. He has good grades, he might even be valedictorian, and so… I think that… maybe, we should just let him decide who he loves.” she interrupted shakily, her voice low.

“I understand, Marj, believe me, I only want the best for our boy, but I’m scared for him, dear. While I respect the Blade family and know Steve is a… somewhat respectable lad, I worry how other folk might treat him. What if he gets jumped? If the church didn’t kill him, who else might? I don’t want to bury my children before their time. Before our time.” his father said, his voice also grief-laden and grim.

Connor moaned, his forehead throbbing again. The dull ache had settled back in. He’d been so sure it’d gone away.

“Oh goodness me, he’s waking up!”

His mother’s cool fingers swept across his forehead. He groaned again when she removed them, the blistering heat spreading across his face.

“Hey sweetie,” his mother cooed. She draped a wet towel over the spot, allowing him a sigh of relief.

“Mhm?” the redhead murmured. He blinked, but his vision was blurry and unfocused. He winced again, squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace.

“How are you feeling, baby?”

“Not s’good. Mm’tired, ma.” Connor slurred.

“Oh… okay sweetie. Get some rest.”

The last thing he felt before he drifted off was his mother’s soft kiss upon his cheek, and then succumbed to the inviting darkness.

.::.

Connor didn’t hear Steve come in, or hear his bookbag plop onto the floor, or hear him pull up Connor’s desk chair to his bedside.

What he _felt_ , was a hand take his own, skin brush against skin, and Steve’s lips graze his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” came Steve’s voice, husky and quiet, “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Connor didn’t reply, feigning sleep. He was still so incredibly angry with himself for letting himself slip away, after all, this whole thing was his fault.

“I did something dumb. I take back what I said, when I called you a closet case. You’re anything but weak. I was being a real skeeze,” Steve said with a small chuckle.

“I don’t know if you can hear me right now, your mama said you haven’t been able to move or speak all too much. Your folks are real nice, ya know that? I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

_What do you care, Steve? What does it matter if I’m okay or not? I’ll never be okay. Look at what you’ve done to me. I’m all undone, all because you had to kiss me._

“I took your schedule with me to class- got all your mush, delivered your mom’s note to the teach. Your sisters are real ankle-biters. They talked up a storm about ya, they look up to you, Con.”

Steve sounded as though he were getting increasingly frustrated with Connor, his voice on the verge of breaking.

“Why’d ya have to do this to yourself, da-” he must’ve almost sworn, because he cleared his throat, his hands shaking in Connor’s own. “D- _darn_ you, Connor McKinley, I told you not to go back. Why don’t you trust me? I want t’ help ya, you won’t let me. Why won’t you let me _love_ you, you odd ball? Why did ya think I was swinging it with Bradley? He’s the straightest toothpick in the canister! How hard is it for you to love me back? Jesus, I’ve tried to get your attention since the fifth grade, doorknob, learn to take a hint!” he snapped, his grip on Connor’s hand tightening until Connor was sure it was cutting off all circulation.

Steve leaned over him, running his fingers through Connor’s hair oh-so-gently, Connor tried not to gulp at the warm feeling of Steve’s body on top of his own. Steve let go of his hand, allowing his palms to cup the redhead’s cheeks, smoothing over the stress lines with his thumbs. It was incredibly soothing, and Connor untensed his muscles, going limp in his… well, now, he might as well say “boyfriend’s”, touch.

“I love you, Connor.” he cried, his hands shaking. Steve pressed his lips against Connor’s own. They were moist and unchapped. Connor let his lips go slack, enjoying the contact.

Connor blinked, brushing his lips with his fingertips when at last Steve pulled away, eyes wide and incredulous.

“I love you too, jerk,” he said softly, voice still hoarse. He offered a weak smile, savoring the tingling sensation that came after.

“H-how long have you been listening?” Steve asked. Connor shrugged, folding back his comforter off of his shoulders and smoothing it on the bed.

“When you first came in. I’ve been listening the whole time.”

Steve blushed, Connor was sure it was the only time he’d ever seen him do so, but the look of adoration Steve gave him in return, the batting of his eyelashes and his cheeky grin, was enough cause for Connor to swoon.

“Gosh, and here I was wondering if you were piling up Z’s. You sly dog, McKinley!” Steve laughed, hugging Connor tightly.

After a few moments of complete bliss, Steve pulled away, his dark eyes narrow in concern.

“Don’t you dare make me worry like that again,” he said, voice low, eyes flitting around to ensure Connor’s parents weren’t listening in on him, “don’t start that _turn it off_ … bull-shit. No turning it off in this relationship, we need to be honest with each other.” After a pause, Steve quickly added: “That is, if we’re in a- if you want to-”

“I do.” Connor said, ducking his head away. “I do, I just… Need time to feel like it’s okay? I need to trust myself.”

“Okay. Okay, we can do that.” Steve resigned, kissing Connor’s cheek again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Connor smiled widely.

“Of course, Steve. Anything for you,” he chirped. The thank-you kiss he gets is certainly the best one he’s ever had, and then the goodbye (could he call it a make-out session? He had to make Steve promise no hickeys this time) smooches were even better.

Connor decided nothing tasted better than the smoky, alluring flavor of Steve Blade. He also decided that nothing was more comforting than Steve holding him, and kissing his forehead, and telling him that everything would be alright.

And then, in the dark of the night, tossing and turning in his bed, he realized that he was dangerously, completely, irrationally in love with his childhood best friend.

.::.

Connor does not like the other greaser gangs that Steve makes “business” with.

He usually stands close behind Steve, trying not to make eye contact. James and Chris are always right nearby, all three of them pensive and waiting for Steve’s due order. As one of two greaser “gangs” in town, Connor’s nerves are always on end when he spots Southview greasers. He was a Northern Springs greaser. You don’t tangle with Southviews, ever.

“What about that pretty thing?” the gang leader from Southview High said. His name was Jared, and he was the most intimidating person Connor had ever seen, with a chipped front tooth and piercing eyes.

Of course, Connor was too naïve at the moment to realize the _pretty thing_ Jared was referring to was himself. That is, until Steve said it.

“Who? Connor?” Steve looked scared, and Connor froze to the spot.

“Yeah, the ginger. If you give me a quick fuck with him, you won’t owe me any loans.”

Steve gritted his teeth.

“He’s not for sale.”

“Really?” Jared said, his voice oozing with venom. “Well, if I don’t get it even with one of your little groupies, or you don’t pay me back, Blade, I’m gonna take what I want. And I always get what I want.”

Connor gripped Steve’s waist a lot tighter on the motorcycle ride home than usual.

.::.

Over winter break, Connor went with Steve to Nebraska to see one of his boyfriend’s cousins. It’s the first time he’d ever gone on vacation without his parents- and they wait until after Christmas to make the trip.

Connor made Steve drive James’ convertible- they make a temporary trade- James gets the motorbike, Steve gets the Chevy.

They get snowed into a motel midway on their trip. Connor finally got the time to be alone with Steve. They kiss, they cuddle… and they make love, and even days, weeks… years later, Connor’s head still spins with memories of how extremely wonderful his first time was.

The trip itself wasn’t too bad. Steve’s cousin was actually quite kind, and Omaha, Nebraska is a lot different from Denver, Colorado. Connor is able to forget anyone had ever attempted separating himself from Steve.

Burying his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, legs entwined, he completely forgets Jared’s threat in the first place.

That was his first grave mistake.

.::.

Steve was starting to get reckless.

Winter break flew by, and then spring fluttered in, melting all the snow and ice.

It wasn’t the only thing that melted over.

“You can’t keep making deals with Northview and not pay them back,” Connor cried. It was their first major fight, and he was shaking profusely with anger. Steve shrugged.

“What’s the worst they could do? Let’s be real, here, Con.” Steve said as if nothing in the world mattered. Connor’s blood boiled.

“They could _kill_ you, Steve. What if- what if you’re not with me one day, and they snatch me up while I’m alone?” Connor argued. Steve grasped for his shaking hands, warming them in his palms.

“They won’t. Jared is straight as a line, he has no interest in you.”

“He wanted to f- _have_ me! That’s what he said the first time I met him- St-steve, you’re squeezing too hard!”

Steve’s eyes were staring blankly ahead, and he was grabbing Connor’s wrists far too tightly. The redhead grimaced, trying to twist his arms out of it.

“Steve!” he repeated, writhing uncomfortably, “let go, you’re scaring me!”

The blonde let go abruptly, jerking to meet Connor’s gaze.

He was silent for a moment, as if deep in thought. He swallowed harshly, wringing his hands in his lap.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled, “I don’t know what came over me.”

Connor shuffled back closer, scooting into Steve’s lap. He wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, pressing his face into his shoulder.

“Please be careful, Steve. Promise you won’t make deals with Northview anymore.”

“Con-”

“Do you love me, Steve?”

Steve pushed Connor back a bit to look over him. He brushed a loose strand of copper hair that had fallen over his eyes back in place, his hands resting warmly on his shoulders.

“Of course I do. You’re my one and only.” Steve said firmly. “There’s no one but you.”

Connor had the ghost of a smile on his face, his features still twisted with his nerves into a contorted scowl, before he hesitantly returned to hugging Steve so close he was too afraid to let go.

“I love you, too,” Connor whispered, “I love you so much, that it scares me, Steve. I’m scared to lose you, okay? Please don’t do anything stupid.”

Steve nodded, nuzzling his chin to tuck over Connor’s forehead. He rocked his boyfriend slowly, his body trembling still from their confrontation.

“I won’t. I promise.” he declared.

Trusting Steve’s word was Connor McKinley’s second horrendous mistake.

.::.

Time is endless. Time is a blur. Time is prison.

This is something truly maddening.

Connor’s a very patient person, however, and he wondered once, how long he’d have to wait until he’d next see Steve and join him on the other side.

After the first few years or so, the pain of Steve festered but it was more a pain of existence than nonexistence. Life without Steve was a blistering sore in what remained of his hollow heart, for when Steve died, part of Connor did too.

Sometimes he wonders if his sisters miss him. He wrote notes to Hope with what little he could conjure as an apparition. Life after death was only a little more bearable knowing she was listening, even if she couldn’t see him.

Emma never quite connected with him the same way he did for Hope. Emma died in childbirth at age twenty, bearing one son whom she named Connor, after her departed brother. Connor could only hope his nephew would be safe. One day, her widowed husband remarried and took the Little Connor with him, and Connor never saw him again.

Mother went crazy with grief. She used to be the chattiest in the Church. Father never quite helped her overcome it, losing her child long before her own time. He tried to console her, she was listlessly incapable of recovery. It was one of the few rare moments in life when you felt the worst and guiltiest about something that came upon Connor McKinley was the reminder that his death caused his mother pain.

He stays with Hope until she dies. He opens doors for her as she stubbornly refuses to go to a senior center. She wants to be with her brother, she says. The town thinks she’s crazy, but Connor smiles and watches over Hope, who never married nor had children of her own, and watches over the house. He reads the books she buys, he watches modern television when her attention span can handle it.

He isn’t able to call 911 when she stops breathing.

He sits by her body, quietly waiting for help. They carry her body away in a stretcher off of her bed. Her funeral is lovely- small, with no relatives that Connor recognizes, but lovely nonetheless.

And then Hope is gone, and Connor is left alone in his childhood home.

He dreads it, honestly, the waiting- the intruders that come through their house rudely and start examining his sisters’ belongings, examining the house itself. He manages to keep his bedroom door locked tight. He does not want intruders in his bedroom, not after all his family had done to leave it untouched, like a faded sepia photograph amongst a rapidly modernizing album, in his own remembrance.

So he observes. He gives house hunters the chills and spooks them the best he can. They will not have this house; they cannot have his home.

And then in walks a man named _Kevin Price,_ and despite all of Connor’s laborious efforts to keep the enigmatic brunette out, somehow, everything about his imperfect little world, is suddenly, and inexplicably... reborn.


	2. The Boy Who Sees

Always starting over is hard enough when you've barely got anything to start over _with_.

It's always the same routine, too. Brown cardboard boxes that carry the scent of old, worn psychology textbooks that provide all the answers except the _right_ ones. Pill boxes and empty cartridges of medications- orange and white, white and orange- discarded in piles in the desk drawers that never seem to disappear. And of course, lots and _lots_ of colorful ties.

His mother packed him a scarf for the road, but it's about 70 degrees outside. So, the green cable-knit scarf (of his mother's own creation) is sitting in a box in the back with his baby blanket and photo albums chocked up to the brim. The baby blanket is for comfort, embarrassingly enough, but something about that infant-sized swaddling blanket being hugged to his cheek before bed brings him comfort.

After all, they'd let him have it the first time he went to the doctor's and had to spend _the night_. The tiles were white and the walls were white and they'd given his seven-year-old-self enough medication to block out the images and voices in his head.

He'd been six when his grandmother died, nearly reaching that ripe age of seven. It was then that the visions began, of his grandmother and the Angel Moroni ascending to heaven-- except that was a dream, and she surely wasn't dead because she talked to him at the funeral with her wrinkly, warm smile and told him how much she _missed him_.

 **Schizophrenia** , the doctor said, and that's where the meds came from. Bottles upon bottles upon bottles of the stuff to keep the dead people haunting Kevin at bay. Every time he had the _"little problem"_ , he was checked into the ward and given a stronger dose the worse it got.

Over time, he'd learned to ignore the apparitions dancing across his vision. Whatever his mind conjured, he did his best to avoid like the good Mormon he was, and only then did he not have to return to the doctors, or take meds that made him feel **gross**.

And it wasn't a lie, if he just didn't say anything at all. Mormons don't _lie_ , and Kevin Price is-- _was_ an awfully good Mormon boy.

Until college hit, that is.

He rings the cashier's bell once, twice, three times before a middle-aged dark-skinned woman with eyes sharper than knives finally takes her place behind the marble counter. She's got curls of abundance, a thick afro of sorts, and her hands rest squarely on her linen-covered hips. Her name-tag appropriately reads **KIMBE** in Comic Sans font. 

The scent of bubblegum is prevalent, and, _yep_ , the pink pops right out of her mouth in a gooey bubble. Which of course pops immediately, and she's left staring at him blankly.

"You gonna buy something, or stare all day, white boy?" she says, eyeing him up and down. 

Kevin feels prude, and immediately lifts his basket onto the counter.

"Oh, sorry. I'm new."

An eyebrow is raised.

"To- to the town."

Then, a look of recognition. She laughs.

"You must be a college boy, then. No one moves to this town for fucking fun, sweetie." she cackles.

She lifts out the candy on the top. Kevin's always been fond of sweet-tarts. Sweet-tarts are good, and the fondness of a bittersweet goodbye floods his memories with every bite. 

_"I could help you move out, you know," Arnold says, his eyes twinkling, "What if there's more ghosts at your house?"_

_He stuffs another handful of sweet-tarts in his mouth. Adjusting his glasses, Arnold leans against the counter in a mischievous light. Kevin scowls, swallowing his last mouthful of the sugary sweets._

_"Seeing dead people because your mind's sick and seeing actual ghosts are two different things." he argues._

_Shoving his hands into his pockets, Kevin adds, "Ghosts are fictional. A mental disorder is real."_

_"But you're not sick, Kevin," Arnold laughs, "You've got some real **Sixth Sense** shit going on here, pal. Look--"_

_He hands Kevin a book, titled_ Ghosts for Dummies _. Kevin all but glances over the ugly, yellow cover page before he's rolled his eyes and already sighed melodramatically._

_"So I'm a dummy now?"_

_"Kevin, you know that's not what I--"_

_Kevin places the book down and holds up his hands in exasperation. Arnold shrugs, taking the the book back.  
He dusts off the cover and drops the book down in Kevin's tote._

_"Just think about it, okay?" Arnold says, offering a weak smile, "After all. I'm your best friend. Just looking out for my buddy."_

_He gives Kevin's shoulder a tiny bump with his first. Kevin snorts._

_"Alright, pal. I guess I'll read it to humor your selection."_

He hands her his disney-print debit card with his classic grin. She looks over him once, twice, before taking it and swiping it in the machine for him. Embarrassed, he rubs his neck.

"I--"

"I'm gonna say two weeks." she interrupts, handing it back.

Kevin blinks.

"A-- uh, two weeks for _what?_ " he echoes. She raises an eyebrow knowingly.

"Two weeks before that stupid-ass grin is replaced with crippling depression and you find that this town fucking sucks. Here's your bag."

She plops it into his arms instead of handing it to him. Then, she promptly turns on her heels, and walks away.

"Have a fucking nice day." says Kimbe.

Kevin shuffles the bag around until he can grasp the handle. Staring back at her until she disappears, he says:

"Uh, thank you, ma'am?"

.::.

"This town is nuts," he whispers to himself as he turns the ignition. He pulls up the address for his new home--

4205 McKinley Street.

It's supposedly a _historic_ street, and the family that lived in the original home had been there for generations upon generations. But it was cheap, apparently, for every tennant who had lived there didn't last past a week before moving out and putting it right back on the market.

Worn-down it is-- with a bent white picket fence and peeling paint and _most of the original furniture still intact_. In fact, when Kevin had requested a tour, the real estate company only offered pictures.

 _"I don't really want to go in there. We can have all the plumbing and electric wires replaced for you, but **me?** No sir, you must understand I have no desire to go in that place,"_ the real estate agent had told him with a nervous chuckle.

With a shrug, Kevin pulls into the driveway. The house key is a new one, apparently, and a brilliant silver and considerably small. He steps into the overgrown lawn. The house is _small_ , so small he can't imagine the family of five he'd heard of living in it, with the ivy creeping up the walls and roof and over the broken fence.

Hell, it almost looked like someone **died** here. It gives Kevin _goosebumps_.

"Well--" he says, wiping his forehead. He steps up the rickety porch.

It creaks-- with broken boards and splinters and god knows what disrepair it's in. But Kevin knows he really can't _afford_ better, so...

He inserts the key into the white door. It clicks. Reaching for the handle, he wraps his hand around it.

It shocks him.

" _Geez! Ow!_ "

He winces, yanking his hand back. He stares at the door, wide-eyed and nervous. He had almost felt like...

 _No, ghosts aren't real_ , he reminds himself. There's an unbearable chill despite the oppressing heat of a sunny end-of-summer day. 

He doesn't like this.

But he reaches for the door again, and the handle turns without shocking him.

He takes a step inside.


	3. Featherduster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposition.

**Cold.**  

_**Cold.** _

_**COLD.** _

 Rain. It pitter-patters across the street pavement, mixing in with the rich red blood and the golden wishy-washy, flickering street lamp. It pours. It soaks. It cleans.

"Steve," Connor whispers, his voice strangled. He shakes the body. His boyfriend is dead. 

"Steve. Steve, wake up."

He presses their cheeks together, shivering in the cold. Waiting. Waiting.  
  
"It'sss-- it'ss cold, St-Steve. Please wake up."

He's cold. It's so cold. His lips quiver, tremble. Are there tears in his eyes or is it just the rain? He's been here so long, the sharp taste in his mouth isn't salty. It's blood.

"Wake up. For me. Please."

No one responds. The white lights in the sky are blinding.

The moon whispers back,  _He's dead, you shitbag, and soon, you will be too._

 

.::.

 

Connor knows every creak in the floorboards. He knows where every footstep has been traced from when his sisters ran down the halls, laughing and giggling. He knows what side of the bed his mother slept on, and the dent she left on the mattress and exactly what shade of linens she replaced the sheets with nightly.  

He knows this house. He's been here, for  _god knows_   **far** too long. He's been here so long, he's long since given up on the God he used to pray to by his bedside. Praying for God to forgive his sins, to  _cleanse_ him, to make him a  _goddamn good Mormon._

The dust collects, and becomes bunnies, and bunnies breed and make even more dust bunnies, until there's entire clans of dust bunnies Connor's helplessly watched gather on his family's belongings. It's taken him a long time, but he's learned to accept the dust. It's the closest thing to a friend that he's had, since  _she_ passed away, and he gave up. And not just mildly gave up, he gave up  _everything_. All hope was pinned on her... and now?

He dwells, now. Just  _dwells_ , like Casper the  **fucking** friendly ghost, reading  _books_ , watching  _television_. Waiting. He watches them come in droves. They want to look to the house. He makes furniture fall. They want to go to his room. He slams the door on their fingers, he does everything. He waits by the window. He watches. He's like a housewife. He hates it, he  **loathes** it. Connor the Houseghost. Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Resentment. It boils under the rendering of what used to be his skin, it burns in his soul. Revenge, he wants it, so, so badly.

People hurt him.

 _Fucking_ people. And where has it gotten him?

 _Fucking **people** ,_ he thinks, watching this tall, lanky brunette walk up to the house. He stiffens, fingers curling into the windowpane. It cracks. 

Of course, the idiot doesn't notice, fumbling with the keys. He's younger than the usual crowd. Desensitized to horror films, Connor thinks with dread, and grabs the handle just as this man does.

The man winces, pulling his hand back with a yelp. Connor smirks. 

 _Fuck you. Fuck you,_ Fuck  _you._ he wills, silently,  _Stay away from my house._

He's seen many people before. The old, bent over and wobbling and Connor spooked those ones easily, from the eras of  _Frankenstein_ and  _Dracula._ Those ones are startled out of their wits. The middle aged tend to be a little harder, having survived  _Nightmare on Elm Street_ and beyond. And then, there's people, like  _this_ twit.

He throws up hands when even the shockwaves don't deter this  _fuckhead_ , who just strolls so casually into the home like nothing happened, as if Connor didn't just hope the sensation would make him  **run**. Instead of fleeing like the others, this asshole just stands there, takes in the view, and says,

"Gosh, what a dump."

"A  _DUMP?_ " Connor shrieks, "This is my home, mother _fucker!_ " 

The man keeps walking down the hall, aloof with his tiny suitcase. There's more boxes in his car that Connor can see, tossing a glance over his shoulder. So many boxes, to hide his family  _heirlooms_ behind.

"You probably won't even open those," Connor snarks, following him. 

"I probably don't have room for all my stuff," the man grumbles blindly, setting down his duffel and suitcase, "No wonder it was so cheap."

" _Cheap?_ " 

Connor scoffs, observing this stranger with a vast disapproval. What an  _idiot._

Scruffy hair. College kid, Connor can tell as much from his dumb sweater. He's probably here for  _Utah State_. If so, he's a little out of his ways... especially on the outskirts of town where no college students dare to trail.

 _A dumbass,_ Connor thinks,  _I got into Harvard. And he thinks he deserves_ this  _home?_

.::.

The walls whisper to him. Memories. They dance in his head. He doesn't sleep, he can't.

**Bang.**

"Steve," he whispers, in a fever. The faucet is dripping. 

 _Can we wear pink to prom?_ the pictures laugh,  _Steve, can we?_

_Anything for you, baby, anything for you._

Sweat drips from his forehead onto the sheets. He's running a fever. Drip, drip, drip.

He remembers nothing. He remembers too much.

 _"Mom!"_ he screams.

No one is home. No one will remember him.

Dust. Rain.

**Cold.**


	4. The Man with the Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3.

There are bruises on his collarbone. He doesn’t remember where he got them. The taste in his lips is burning, sharp and metallic. No, his whole body is on fire. He lets his thumb graze over purple-and-blue marks along the contrast of ivory. He can’t ever remember being this pale, this cold.

It’s another stupid dream. Pointless, even, but Kevin slips in and out of them in a frenzy. In some sick juxtaposition, he can’t remember the last time he had a soundless dream. 

His mother used to make him chamomile tea. He sat on the kitchen counter as she microwaved a cup of hot water and steeped in the tea bag. The clear liquid would soon turn murkier and murkier, with milk poured in and honey stirred until it was a sleepytime concoction. She’d kiss his forehead, and reassure him that the medication would work.

“Heavenly Father doesn’t make mistakes,” she’d say, a warm, dim smile on her face. All milky and sickeningly sweet and sugarcoated, like the vanilla-ish taste of the nasty chamomile tea. She’d pat his shoulder, watch him choke it all down, and then tuck him into bed. Her hands cupped his cheeks as she bent over to kiss his forehead. He used to think it was sweet.

To this day, Kevin hates chamomile.

The dream is an odd one. He’d fallen asleep on a mattress with no bedsheets, his dark green travel blanket drawn up and over his lanky shoulders. He’d shivered a bit. It was awfully cold in this house, and a day of unpacking had left him tired. He tried to access an upstairs room, but the door was locked without a key. As peculiar as it is, Kevin usually has _something_ that these dreams.

This seems to be nothing.

 _“Please!”_ a voice is screaming. It’s bloodcurdling. Kevin recoils, his fingers still digging into the imprints of bruises on his flesh. 

 _“Please, please, someone-- someone help me!”_  

A boy, by the sounds of it. It’s raining, so hard, and he rounds the corner, a body on the ground and another standing over it with a knife. There’s another boy, with hair slicked down from the wet and the cold. The knife man holds this hair in his fist, with the knife pressed against the boy’s throat as he squirms and cries.

_“Help me! Please, please--”_

He tastes the cold. The dust coats his lungs. It’s almost vanilla in flavor, like the chamomile tea. It’s choking him, suffocating him. Kevin is afraid. He opens his mouth to cry out, but finds there’s nothing there. 

Rain; a _downpour_ . It fills his lungs, and the cold air that he exhales evaporates with each fleeting moment. The man is still standing there, unmoving, blade in hand. He’s seen this thing, this _person_ , this _ghost_ before, but he does not know them. He never sees their face. Kevin’s instincts scream for him to run, run as fast as he can, but his muscles are frozen in place.

The dust clears from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air. The rain is wearing him down, like a heavy vice on his shoulders. Clamping. Cramming. Heavy. 

“Who **are** you?” Kevin screams.

There is no answer.

Pitter-patter, patter-pitter.

Another scream alerts him, and the man with the knife bolts, disappearing into the shadows. The boy staggers to the ground, unharmed. He looks behind him. The street light is flickering out.

 He looks at Kevin, it seems, or maybe he’s looking past him, with sad, sad eyes like two empty pools of absolute _nothingness._ Kevin’s sure he’s never in his life seen such an emptiness, such a void of absolute bleakness.

 And then it comes back.

 

**Dust.**

 

**Rain.**

 

**_Cold._ **

The windows are coated in condensation when he awakens, as wet as his forehead that’s drenched in a cold sweat. Gasping for breath, Kevin sits up and draws his knees to his chest. He’s breathing heavy, nearly hyperventilating.

Day Three, and he’s had this dream every night.

 He feels like the walls are watching him, listening to him. He tells Arnold about this on the phone, to the admonish of his own weariness.

“Arnold,” he says, pacing the pale green tiles of the kitchen floor (which are, for the age of this home, in seriously good withstanding, considering), “There is something wrong with me. I need a stronger medication.”

There’s a family portrait hung in the living room, of three children and their parents. It’s eerily happy, but only the boy-- this redheaded boy, with blue eyes and freckles covering every inch of his skin-- is frowning.

Today, the painting is smiling at him, taunting him with leery eyes and a knowing grin. He swears before _Heavenly Father himself_ that the painting hadn’t done that before.

“Do you know where I could find history of this house?” he asks Arnold, leaning against the counter.

And then, the painting _blinks_ and Kevin about jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus heckin’ christ!” Kevin screams, and throws his phone at it. It bounces off of the wall, leaving not a single dent in the painting.

He blinks. The painting is back to normal.

His chest rises and falls dramatically as his heart pounds in his chest. He finds himself on the verge of tears. This is _not_ how college is supposed to go, or living alone, and wow, does he miss his friends all of a sudden. But his family?

A whole other story. He talked to his mother the other day, he _lied_ to her, something he never does.

“How is the house?” she had asked him, “I’m worried about you living alone.”

"I’m fine, mom,” he’d said. He was anything but fine, he can’t even think of a single moment in his life that he could be remotely considered fine.

He scoops up his phone. Arnold hadn’t even hung up yet. Pressing it to his ear, he waits for the judgment from his friend’s end.

“Buddy, what the hell? Did you just throw your phone?” Arnold laughs. Kevin’s ears burn at the embarrassment.

“ _Maybe_ , gosh, okay? I’m _seeing_ things again.”

He scrubs his face, returning to the kitchen to splash cold water on his face. He sets his phone on the counter, turning on speaker. Arnold continues yammering on. Kevin can almost picture his ex-roommate’s curls bouncing on his head and his glasses starting to slide off his nose from the sweat he works himself up into. It makes his chest hurt again. It’s _almost_ nostalgic. 

Almost.

“You see _ghosts_ , Kevin, I’m telling you!”  

His dad would be giving him a cruel, disconcerted look if Kevin had said anything of the sort, and he’d end back up in the hospital again in another one of those padded rooms and his mom weeping whenever she came to visit him until he ended up faking his happiness in order to leave. It was always a rinse and repeat, with their family’s pastor coming in to see him and read to him from the book. There was always something wrong with him, something that never truly made sense.

“Your best friend is a schizo, Arn, you’re gonna have to face that one day,” Kevin says, “I have no control over my disability, okay? Please don’t make fun of me.”

The painting is back to smiling at him. It’s watching him, judging him.

He hates it.

“Who are you?” he questions it. 

The redheaded boy’s condescending smile seems to deepen, and his eyes are demonically darker than Kevin remembered. The rain is thumping against the window in ugly, big splotches. _Thunk, thunk, thunk._

He almost forgets Arnold is even there on speaker as he examines every paint stroke. He wonders if the family posed for this painting, because it’s not a photograph. It must be ancient by now. There’s a date on the bottom right corner. 

April 1st, 1952.

“ _Uhhhhhhhhh…_ Kev?”  
  
Kevin shakes his head.  
  
“Not you, Arnold, the painting.”  
  
“The… painting? Woah! There’s a painting talking to you?”  
  
“What-- _no_ , buddy, can you call me back later?”

“O-kay then, have fun with your new best friend: the talking painting!”  
  
“ _Arnold--_ ”

Beep.

 

CALL ENDED.

 

Kevin scrunches up his face and shoves the phone in his pocket.

He doesn’t like this. Not one bit.  
  
“Who are you?” he says, a little more hoarse, “Why won’t you let me sleep?”  
  
He doesn’t get an answer. The dreary, bleak house shutters with the sound of thunder echoing in the background. He makes his coffee, discontent with the state of the house.

“Whoever you are, eff you,” Kevin says, warily glancing around with every creak, “You don’t scare me.”

His dream that night is forgettable, empty. And perhaps, that’s the scariest thing of all. He doesn’t like the quiet, he doesn’t like not knowing things or knowing when things will happen. He swallows down extra pills. Maybe he’s not going crazy, after all. Things become a routine, he drives onto campus with _zero_ occurrences like the house. His classmates are all strange, give him weird looks. One approaches him about a week into classes, a smug look on his face.

“You live in the McKinley house, don’t you?” the classmate jeers, “I bet you won’t last two weeks.”  
  
“Why? What’s wrong with it?” Kevin says, wiping the crumbs of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of the corners of his lips.

“Oh, it _is_ haunted. There’s a boy there, he died decades ago.”

“How did he die?”

“Nobody really knows. He was a homo, legend has it, and the guy he was fucking was killed in a gang fight. It was like a fucked up Grease.”

Kevin looks at his lap.

“Oh.”

_There’s a boy in the room with Kevin, in a straight jacket with coppery hair and sad brown eyes. He’s a special case,  the doctors say, and he’s dangerous and he could hurt somebody if he’s let out of his straight jacket._

_Kevin stares more than he should, his eyes wide and red-rimmed as the boy insults him listlessly, word after word more violent than the last. He doesn’t like the way this boy looks at him, and he’s certainly uncomfortable with the way he catches himself looking at the ruffled hooligan who shares this padded room with him. It’s enough that Kevin catches himself digging his nails into his thigh._  

_It’s strange. He’s never felt this way before._

_“Why are you so cruel?” Kevin asks._  

 _“Because the world hates people like me,” the boy snarls, “You know why they put me in here? I’m just like you.”_ __  
  
“I’m not sick.”

 _“Neither of us are. I don’t have any real diagnosis, this isn’t a mental hospital.”_ __  
__  
_“You’re delusional!” Kevin laughs, hugging his knees, “I’ve been sent here so many times.”_ __  
  
“Kissed a lot of boys then, huh?”

Kevin’s been digging his nails into his leg longer than he supposed he’d thought he had. He quickly takes off his bookbag and fishes through the front pockets. The classmate stares at him in bewilderment, but also interest, as Kevin pops another pill and chases it down with water.

“Uh, sorry, I have anxiety,” Kevin laughs, “I have to uh, take meds for it.”  
  
“No wonder you’re so fucking weird,” the classmate snickers, “Gotswana. Pre-med.”

“Kevin, environmental science.”  
  
“Weird major for a weird motherfucker.” 

“Aw,” Kevin scrubs the nape of his neck, “I like it. I like feeling grounded, you know.”

Gotswana takes a step back, clearly on the verge of leaving because he checks his watch a little tiredly.

“I have another class, but, take a heed of warning, white boy. Don’t ground your roots here.”  
  
“Pardon?” Kevin asks.

“You heard me. Run while you still can, and get away from that house. It might turn you gay or some shit.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but Gotswana’s already turned away and strolled back down from where he’d came. Scratching his knee hard enough to make it bleed, Kevin waits each passing moment for the meds to kick in. 

Tick tick tick tick… 

 

The boy with red hair.

It’s always a boy with **red hair**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have chapter five written. If anyone is still reading this I appreciate you sticking around for the bumpy ride. I've had a lot going on in my life lately and I'm trying to be consistent.
> 
> I was hospitalized twice in the past year for lung complications. I have never been diagnosed with asthma before in my life but suddenly I am suffering from that as well as swelling and inflammation of the vocal chords. I couldn't physically speak for two months last fall, it's caused me to fall into a terrible depression that I am still recovering from. 
> 
> I've been considering writing Exquisite Corpse again as well but this one seems more popular than the latter. Chapter Five will be a bit darker into why Connor is as embittered as he is, so a warning is ahead for mentions of darker subject matter (but trust in that I will not write anything graphic, this fic is meant to be t-rated but I might bump it up to m if the language bothers anyone). Thank you very much for your support.


	5. The Boy Who's Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Homophobia, suggested/implied sexual content.
> 
> Connor's always been alone.

Momma taught him how to dance in his nice shoes. Oxfords, white and tan with his dorky khakis on and suspenders. He felt like such a  _ nerd _ , but that love of ballroom dancing turned into a love of other forms of dancing. They told him he’d be on Broadway one day with the talent like he had, and when he saw his first Broadway musical,  _ South Pacific _ , he’d thought that was the life destined for him.

He thought  **wrong** .

Acceptance letters from Harvard, Yale, Columbia… he could’ve done anything.

He felt nothing when he died, he could hardly remember doing it because he woke up in his bed the next morning and no one was home. He must’ve survived it, somehow, he must not be dead. Why else would he be gone from this earth?

“Momma?” 

He wandered the house aimlessly. It was empty. He couldn’t remember a morning where his sisters weren’t running about and arguing. It was a Friday morning, he would go to school and kiss his mom on the cheek and then run to catch the bus, waving behind him as went.

She isn’t here.

Nobody is here.

They come home at 4:00PM. Connor knows this because he waits in the kitchen. He doesn’t feel hungry, he doesn’t feel anything.

Connor positively  _ beams _ when the rickety front door swings open. He leaps to his feet. This is his family; he was so excited to  _ see them _ .

“Mom!” he calls, strolling into the hallway. His mother briskly walks right past him. Her face is twisted into tears, her hands poorly concealing her face. She stumbles, but before Connor can try to catch her, his father is kneeling beside her.

His sisters are crying too, and his father. Something is  **wrong** , terribly, terribly wrong. Connor says, “Mom, I’m right here? Mom, what’s happening?”

“He’s happier now, he’s in a better place,” his father sobs, “He was so unhappy without Steve, they’re gonna be together at rest now, honey.”

“What?” Connor kneels beside his parents now too, feeling awfully cold.

“You-- you guys know I’m right here, right? This isn’t funny.”

“It’s not fair!” his mother howls, “My baby boy…”

The last time he saw his mother cry was at graduation. There was an empty seat next to Connor, awfully cold, awfully lonely, with “Steve Blade” on the little index card they’d used to assign seats. It wasn’t alphabetical, but the school kept him included anyways. Connor has that index card with his own in his scrapbook. His book of  _ Steve. _

“Mom, look at me.”

He ought to be crying, he really ought to. There’s a bad feeling in his gut. He can’t remember the details of last night, except for the rain, and the cold, and the  _ dust _ that was collecting on the shelves that he’d frantically beat with a feather duster. It was collecting on Steve’s varsity jacket as the thunderstorm raged and he found himself losing control. Slipping, slipping away.

He wasn’t able to just relax. Steve had always told him he needed to just  _ relax _ and let loose. Connor was never quite good at that. He clung to his remnants of his dead boyfriend like a lost puppy to his dead owner’s side. School got worse. No one tormented Connor anymore, they just felt sorry for him. They passed him in the hallways as if he were a lost cause, and Connor hates that. He hates being pitied. He misses Steve so much, he breaks down whenever someone asks him, “Are you okay?”

The nerve. Like as if he’s fucking  _ okay _ . The police asked him that too,  _ are you okay, kid? _ They had to pry Connor’s hands off of Steve’s body as if that made it any better, and they collected evidence. Steve’s leather jacket is now gone like the empty helmet that was his boyfriend’s on the football team. Gone like the embroidered gold cigarette case that they used to share blunts out of. Their kisses were smokey, dangerous, and daring. He misses that thrill. He misses taking risks. He misses being  _ Steve’s baby. _ It hurts, just like his body is so sore when he sat in the police station all soaked up with rain. 

He was drenched, but he felt so dry on the inside. Everything was all dried up like a desert.

“The docs say that the suspect might have done something  _ sexual _ to you?” the cops ask.

“Yeah,” Connor says, wiping the blood from his nose on his sleeve, “That’s not important.”

It is important. It’s important, because the gang leader touched him in ways only Steve had ever touched him and held a knife to his throat and made him get down on his knees. It was humiliating. His jaw aches at the memory.

_ “Maybe I’ll spare Blade if you make this a little fun for me.” _ he’d said, and pushed Connor’s head down.

A blade for a blade. A blade was supposed to be the weapon, and Steve Blade cried like Connor had never seen him cry before.

_ “Let him go. Please, he has nothing to do with this,”  _ Steve whimpered,  _ “Please. Please, I love him.” _

Connor felt the knife against his throat and the hand in his hair holding him up, all bloodied and bruised on display to see.

“Honey,” he’d whispered, “don’t do it. Steve. I’m okay, I’m okay.”

Steve shook his head frantically, mouthing  _ I love you _ over and over again, too choked up to make out the words. The gang leader smiled. It was cruel. It was a game. They always love games, don’t they?

He didn’t. The metal of the blade was cold. Now, the metal of the police’s chair is equally as cold. It’s a cruel irony. Twisted, cruel irony, that where he watched Steve die felt no better than the police reports filed afterwards.

This whole thing would be swept under the rug. Steve would be forgotten. There would be no memorial, not for a homosexual. Steve died for nothing, he wasn’t a martyr. For all the police cared he was another dumb kid illegally gambling and indebting himself to others. For all the police knew, Steve was another unfortunate statistic of boys who like boys dying some ugly, gruesome death.  
  
Connor was **disgusted**.  
  
“Son, we’re trying to help you,” the chief tells him, “We wanna catch your boytoy’s murderer, okay?”

“Steve did it to himself,” Connor laughs, choking on his tears, “He promised me he wouldn’t do any dirty deals. He promised me he’d keep me safe. Now he’s dead and here I am. Tell me officer, how safe did he keep me? What about himself, huh? Did he keep us safe?”

The cops don’t even know what do say to that.  
  
“The best you can do for Steve right now, is ask your cohorts to stop harassing homosexuals, and putting us in hospitals or on the streets. That guy is probably long gone, huh? And you won’t find him, because you don’t want to. Because if I died too, it would be a tragedy to sensationalize, and not  _ oh poor queer Connor _ . So fuck you, leave me alone. Leave all of us alone.”

Where is Connor, anyways?

Numb. The news spreads so quickly, that valedictorian Connor McKinley was taken advantage of and the guy that did it and killed his boyfriend got away. They never did catch that motherfucker. But they found the murder weapon.

His speech is probably the shortest in the history of the planet, his voice raw and numb and cold. His voice was never quite the same after he blew it out screaming Steve’s name, holding onto his body like a lifeline until the lights of the police car blinded him and he kept screaming anyways, screaming for them to save him, screaming that they wouldn’t let him in the ambulance car with him.

Some luck.  
  
“Congratulations.” he tells his classmates, the ones who judged him, the ones who pitied him.  **Them** .  
  
“Have a great rest of your life as adults. Sometimes, childhood is short. Steve never got to be a grown up, did he? He was never a kid. I lived in a fantasy land, you see, I thought the world couldn’t stop me from loving him. Sometimes life sucks you dry, huh? Cherish what you’ve got right now because the Devil collects  _ whatever he wants _ .”

He steps off the pedestal, takes his diploma, and walks away.

Connor was always running away.

“ _ Mom. _ ” Connor pleads, now in tears. His mom is not smiling like she did the first time Connor learned to dance. His mom is crying so loudly, he’s unsure of what to do.

“Connor, why’d you have to leave us? Why couldn’t you just find his killer?” she sobs, “He can’t be gone, he can’t be.”

“Mom, I’m right here--  _ momma _ , please--”

He reaches out to touch her. His hand goes right through her  _ body _ .

With a yelp, he retracts his hand.

“No… no, no, no, _no!_ ”

He tries again. The same thing happens. He sobs, pushing himself back against the wall except there’s nothing to back up against. 

“ _No,_ this can’t be happening _!_ Mom, say something, _Momma--_ **don’t leave me here alone** , please, I’m scared, please Mom, I take it back, I take it back!”

He covers his face in his hands. His sisters, his father, his mother, they all can’t see him.

For someone who’s dead, Connor feels _awful cold_. He runs out the back gate, unable to stand anymore and witness his family’s breakdown. It was raining. It’s always  **fucking** raining.

Numbly, he looks to the sky. Cursing the God who’d abandoned him and left him behind. Cursing himself for letting himself die so pathetically. He’s a coward. He’s a dirty, rotten coward who does nothing but cause others pain.

“ **STEVE!”** he screams.  
  
Even Steve doesn’t come to his rescue this time.

For the first time in his entire life, Connor is utterly  _ alone _ . And it wouldn't be the last time.

 

.::.

 

He follows  _ Kevin Price _ around almost aimlessly. It’s fun to watch him get fucked over, whether it’s through his smirks in a painting to tripping on a moving rug or getting shocked.

Mostly, he keeps Kevin out of his bedroom, so his wandering eyes won’t see the only room in the house that hasn’t been touched by human hands in nearly 40 years. It’s kept exactly the way it was since the day he died. His mother wandered in and out of there until her death, and Hope locked it up the very next day.

He wanted to believe, for the longest time, his mom could feel his presence. But it was only ever Hope, who talked to the walls as if she knew he was there. Thanked him for being with her when she grew old and lonely.

“I love you,” Connor had whispered into her ear. He had turned up the AC for her, to warm her old bones. Her days had been growing thin. The house had changed so much. Connor would never change though, never leave, he was  _ faithful _ , he was a good brother. He loved his family. He loved his sister.

“I love you,” she’d said, as if she had heard it. Maybe she did.

“You’re a sad virgin,” Connor says amiably, watching Kevin work on his homework-- a textbook titled  _ Environmental Biology _ .

“Oh,  _ definitely _ a virgin. Ha.”

He closes the book on Kevin’s hand, making him yelp in pain. Connor cackles, getting unbearably close to the brunette to study his face. Kevin can feel the cold, he shivers as he works and Connor grows even closer.  
  
“It’s a shame you’re such a  **sad virgin,** ” he moans, “You remind me of my boyfriend, in the body type that is. He was  _ way _ hotter than you.”

He knows he’s talking to himself, but what’s the fun in not pretending that the boy was at least attractive in a sense? He hadn’t had sex since the summer after Steve died. He’d thrown himself into a  _ lot  _ of hate sex, desperate to feel. He missed being loved, what could he say? It never did quite feel the same. He was a notorious  _ slut  _ in his neighborhood, practically drooling and eyes sore at the sight of any tanned and muscled boy. He got a little desperate, even.

A good thing he died then, or he would’ve probably died of something worse in a couple decades. Connor can’t really dwell on the past, but he does, and the wet hot summer of ‘55 is what drove him over the edge. He doesn’t know why he turned to sex as coping with Steve, it always felt wrong and emotionless and all that he cared about was that sensation of someone else  _ inside _ of him and making him feel  _ so, so good. _

He’d stumble home disheveled and stone drunk and with his clothing rumpled and sweaty, and his mother would scold him. Every single time, her eyes looked glasser and sadder than the last time. Glossed-over, like everything else in this house.  
  
“I thought you’d save yourself for marriage.”   
  
“I’m never getting married, Ma,” Connor would laugh, “What? Just accept it: I’m gonna die.”  
  
“Connor, don’t say things like that. What about St--”   
  
“ _ WHAT ABOUT HIM?”  _ Connor screamed at her once, “He’s fucking _ dead,  _ mom _ , he’s not here anymore!  _ Sorry I decided I wanna move on with my sorry life and find someone else who won’t just up and die on me.”

He’d burst into tears after that, crying about how much he  _ missed _ him and all that soppy shit. What a sap. What a failure he was.  
  
He bit into his thumb, waving her off with his other hand as his shoulders shook and his eyes teared up.  


“I loved him so much,” he bemoaned to her, “I loved him so much, Mom, it hurts so bad.”

Shallow McKinley. Always so shallow. He turns back to Kevin with a glint in his eye and a cocky grin to encompass it.

“I had sex with a pretty face like _yours_ once. He was skinner, though, at least you have ass. He bent me over in his family’s toolshed, he was a closet case. I guess Mummy and Pa-Pa were afraid of their little Prince Charming getting deflowered by the prince of the neighboring country. The lesser kind of folks.  _ Muah _ , that is, because I wouldn’t like it if they called me a goddamn princess. Are  _ you _ ? Are you a closet case?”

It’s extremely irritating that for a month straight, Kevin calls his best friend  _ Arnold Cunningham _ on the phone. Where is the decency? The courtesy?   


“Why don’t you just fucking leave?” Connor whines as Kevin makes Phone Call Number 1 Million.

They talk about the randomest shit. Connor learns things, though, that Kevin has a  _ little problem _ and that Arnold has a  _ little problem _ and they must both be neurotic creeps. Arnold had the shrillest voice. It reminded him of Chris and James.  
  
Chris was still barely alive, in a retirement home, and James had passed in the 70s or so. It was awfully sad. Some disease wiped him out. Chris fell into a terrible pit of a depression then-- those two had been way closer than Connor and Steve would’ve ever been. They were sweet together. So sweet. A quiet little funeral. Connor would be there, too, to watch him leave this earth. He was the last of his friends who still  _ existed. _

Still, it’s so utterly convenient and an annoying purgatory that Connor was unable to speak with the curmudgeon who was dwelling in his residence. Kevin was oblivious as ever, and obligatory to his schoolwork and his family and friends. He spoke of his father, often, and his  _ Mormon upbringing. _

“You’re Mormon?” he asks Kevin, knowing he isn’t listening, either willfully or ignorantly didn’t quite matter, but the question hangs in the air. He sighs, resting his hands on his chin.

The nights get awful lonely.

It’s boring trying to scare someone who isn’t as easy to scare.   
  
“I’m Mormon too, we have something in common, Mr. Tall and Handsome. But I’m about the furthest thing from God you’re ever gonna get. I mean, look at me, I’m not in heaven.”

And then with a snicker, “Well, seems that you can’t look at me anyways, can you?”

Nobody can. Connor is alone again, it seems.

The nights grow colder. His time here is fading, it seems, with each ticking moment, he swears, he thinks he might get closer to heaven. He hears Steve’s voice in the walls of the house. He relives each parting moment because there’s nothing else now to re-live except pain, again and again and again and  _ again _ . His soul is splintered, fractured, and yet irrevocably trapped in the dismal, gloomy little house with rickety floorboards and old 50’s tile and ugly paintings on the walls.

“Please say you can hear me,” Connor whispers once Kevin’s settled down for the night, “Please say I’m not alone, or something. Or leave and don’t come back.”

His answer lies in Kevin’s droopy eyelids, and the covers drawn up to his neck. Connor would almost think it was sweet.

_ Fuck _ Kevin Price.

“I’m  **alone** .” Connor laughs to the empty space, “I always have been. When's that gonna change, huh, God? Oh right, you don't exist."

He rolls his eyes, reveling in making each step of the staircase creak with every plunder he makes up them. It makes him feel real. As if he had never died, as if he'd always been here. As if he somehow  _existed_ beyond death, beyond destruction.

Of course, it doesn't. He retreats to his room, his heart heavy and his body unable to sleep in this form.

It made for lonely, lonely nights and even lonelier days. But this was his life.

It would always be this way, and never, ever change.

  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Disassociation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543608) by [theelderpriceisright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelderpriceisright/pseuds/theelderpriceisright)




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